TMNT: Precious (Fragile) Things
by tmntpunx
Summary: 2012 verse. Casey Jones is coming back home, and he's crashing on April and Donatello's couch. When Casey reveals secrets from April's past Donatello must confront jealousy, self-doubt, and his own shortcomings as he examines what it really takes to make his relationship with April work. Rated T for swearing and sexual situations. April x Donatello.
1. Chapter 1

Down the hall from Donatello's home office, April was lamenting her morning routine. "Donatelloooo. Why does flossing have to be so horrible?"

"Because you don't do it often enough!" the turtle chided, raising his voice just enough so that she could hear him over the cooling fans toiling over his server racks. April let out a long, loud groan.

"Keep fighting the good fight my sweet chinchilla!" Donatello called. He fell into a soft chuckle at the absurd term of endearment of a lovelorn, mooney eyed teen boy. It had been so long since he called her that. _My sweet chinchilla_. The saccharine pet name he had fashioned from his unrequited teenage love for her had been honed into a joke. Ten years ago, it would have crushed him. But now he didn't mind at all.

He never would have told her about the pet name, of course. The years of longing, and chart-making, and petty fights with Casey over her were so embarrassing that they still made his stomach curdle, even a decade later. No, he never would have told her. But Raphael had ratted him out. None of his brothers had never had much talent for keeping secrets, but Raphael was especially adept at revealing things at the most uncomfortable moment. When it came to making his brothers squirm, he was a savant.

The first Christmas they spent together April had brought the eggnog, and Casey brought a bottle of his father's bourbon. Raphael quickly learned that the effect of the bourbon was expedited by the absence of eggnog, and shortly after, all of their secrets were spilling out of his mouth. Eager, slurred words made Donatello's cheeks flare hot and red. But April only smiled. She held his hand. She laughed with him, not at him. That was when he knew. Sitting there, on that old lumpy couch, her quiet smile cut through Raphael's bawdy laughter, and he knew. Everything was going to be all right.

But that was before he made the decision to live turtle shook his head, trying not to dwell. Nothing good ever came from dwelling.

He had known living above ground with her was going to be a challenge. Thankfully, the advent of the internet had simplified things considerably. Most basic functions of modern living could be orchestrated online. Working. Banking. Buying groceries. But there was only so much that could be approximated online. There was no walking down the street holding hands. No meeting at the bar for drinks after a long day. There would never be a baby to push through Central Park while the leaves changed colors in autumn.

There were so many more sweet, paltry trappings of an ordinary life that he so desperately wished to give her, even though she insisted she did not need them. April O'Neil was extraordinary, after all. Destined for incredible things, not just a quiet, ordinary life. There was no doubt about it. But that didn't mean that there weren't bad days. Or bills to pay.

Maybe this was as close to normal as it would ever be.

Life had been so quiet after the Foot Clan had disbanded. Despite having enough absences to give Casey's truancy record s a run for its money, April graduated from high school, top of her class. And then there was college. _Summa cum laude._ Donatello had attended both graduations in sweats, with a hoodie drawn taut around his face. A ballcap and aviator glasses concealed his eyes as he sat with his large, painfully inhuman hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. Kirby said he looked like the Unabomber, but that didn't keep Donatello from smiling when April walked across that stage. Donatello reminded himself to find something more fashionable to wear to the next one. She would be defending her PhD thesis soon enough.

April's voice rang out from down the hall, but he did not make out the words. Not exactly. The turtle murmured absentmindedly in response; his eyes scanning line after line of code on one of the many screens before him.

"Hey!" she called, again.

Donatello swivelled around in his chair, and there she was. Standing in the doorway. A vision in a mustard yellow cable knit sweater. Her lip tugged at the corner, curling into a half-moon smirk. She was giving him her _Yeah, I'm hot shit_ look. Even though she hadn't taken up her fan in years, she was still a kunoichi at heart. Always would be. Her blue eyes gleamed in the soft morning light. After all these years, he still sighed a little when she looked at him like that.

"I've gotta go. If I miss my train I'll be late for class, and I'll never hear the end of it from my TA." She rolled her eyes.

And, then, in unison, they both said, "What an a-hole."

That made her smile. When she smiled, Donatello smiled. That was how he got through every day top-side, sitting in his office. Alone. Her happiness was his happiness.

When she leaned in to kiss him goodbye, wisps of her brilliant red hair fell from her messy bun, tickling his nose. Her lips pressed against his, warm, and soft. They lingered for a moment, as if she wanted something more. But he knew she had to go.

"See you tonight," she squeezed his hand. "Love you."

"I love you too."

She was already gone. He listened, waiting for her to pull the door shut. The door groaned, and he turned back to his desk. It was an old building. The wood swelled in the heat. Got stiff in the cold. The windows could barely keep the heat in. Or the cold out. The water heater worked, most of the time. But it was home.

The building had been hit particularly hard during the invasion. The whole neighborhood had. That was the only reason they could afford the apartment. It would have been less of a strain if Donatello wasn't supporting his father and brothers. But he was the only one who could work. Remote IT support and hosting services wasn't exactly intellectually stimulating work, but it was work that paid. Between his small business and April's modest stipend from the university, they all got by.

Donatello cracked his knuckles. He had IT tickets to review and customized servers to tend to. As he was debating making himself another cup of coffee or not, a chat window populated the corner of the nearest screen. April's name glowed in a cheery, nonconfrontational orange.

_Did you see the papers I left you?_

His eyes drifted to the edge of his desk, where a stack of printed term papers were piled high. _Yes I did. Very generous of you, professor._

_You know I hate it when you call me that!_

Donatello smiled at her protest. _What - I can't be hot for teacher? _He could imagine her rolling her eyes now.

_I refuse to dignify that with a response._

The turtle chuckled. _I have about a dozen tickets to go over, but I can give them a look once I'm done. _

_Thanks. _She paused. Donatello closed his eyes. He could see her so clearly. There she was. Crammed in a sea of bodies that filled the train, holding her pack tight across her chest. Sighing. _I wish you could be my TA for real. _

_Me too_. His smile shrunk.

_There's something I was meaning to ask you before I left._

Donatello's fingers flew over the keyboard. _I already paid the PG&E. And the cell bill. _

_It's about Casey_.

The turtle's face settled into a frown. Though his rivalry with Casey Jones had long been put to rest, his soft spot for Jones was still considerably smaller than April's. If he was putting things politely. They tolerated one another, for her sake. And Raphael's. When Casey shipped off to some state college where people evidently cared about hockey enough to award scholarships for playing the sport, Raphael had taken it pretty hard. And he wasn't the only one who missed their friendly neighborhood vigilante.

Donatello knew that April and Casey had kept up with one another, but it neither concerned nor interested him. There were emails, and there was the occasional text message, but mostly April periodically tutored Casey over skype, late at night. The following mornings often included an update on Casey Jones and where he was on his "ten year plan". Donatello made it a point to listen, but rarely asked April to repeat herself if anything got lost in the tiny roar of the bean grinder while he made their morning coffee.

These days, they saw Casey about once a year. He always brought a bottle of bourbon to their underground christmas party. Said it was tradition. He drank and expounded on all of his late night encounters with girls he picked up after his hockey games. Michelangelo busied himself in the kitchen. Leonardo nodded politely. Raphael drank that bourbon straight, and rarely said a word. Raph only really drank when he was around. Donatello assumed it helped his brother cope. He sighed. Casey Jones once a year was enough.

_He lost his hockey scholarship and needs a place to crash while he gets back on his feet_. April continued, and Donatello's face furrowed into a deeper frown. _Can he stay with us?_

_Why can't he stay at the lair?_ _They have more room._Donatello asked, though he already knew the answer. Raphael.

The two had done the whole "roommate" thing while Casey was doing his time at Laguardia Community College. But Casey had wandering eyes for pretty co-eds, and pro-hockey ambitions that ended their tenure as roommates before their lease was up. That was years ago; Donatello had almost assumed Raph would be over it by now. The turtle pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tight. That was stupid. Raphael never got over anything.

An ellipsis hovered in the chat window, making him wonder if she was teasing him. Refusing to dignify his petty question with a response. Donatello sighed. _How long?_

_A few weeks? _Her reply appeared almost instantly. _I mean, he could crash at my dad's place, if you're not comfortable with him staying with us._

Donatello dragged his hand over his face. That was all he needed; April's former suitor to have more bonding time with her father. Kirby liked Donatello. They got on well enough. But during all of their family dinners, arranged late at night to accommodate Donatello's need to move through the city unseen, there was always an undercurrent of disappointment. After the Krang, and her mother, and everything, all Kirby wanted for his extraordinary daughter was an ordinary life. And the worst thing was, Donatello agreed with him.

In comparison to a mutant ninja turtle, Casey Jones was normal. Donatello smirked. If a vigilante was their barometer for normal, they were in serious trouble. Or at least moderately deranged. And yet... Jones had the potential to pass as normal. He had an able human body. He could work, and provide everything associated with employment. Income. Health care. Stability. He could even open the door for a take-out delivery without the foreknowledge that it would end badly. Encounters with other humans rarely went well for Donatello. Best case scenario: shrieks of terror. Worst case scenario: police involvement. He wheezed miserably. Nothing embarrassed him more than April having to contend with the police on his account.

The last time an officer showed up at the door they were marathoning X-Files on the couch. Someone had called because they thought they saw "a monster" in the window, and they were worried. Worried about that nice red-headed girl. April bought a set of curtains for every window, after that night. The curtains were nice enough, but whenever the cool evening air crept in, making those curtains sway in the breeze, he thought of that night. It wasn't the first time someone had thought he was a monster. Or a freak. Or any of the other litany of terms that haunted him when he laid in bed next to her each night.

_Don?_

The text cursor blinked rapidly in his chat window, awaiting his response almost as eagerly as she was. He took a deep breath before he committed to the keystrokes. A single green finger lingered over the return key before hitting send. _Yeah babe, it's fine_.

_Thank you sweetheart._

Donatello sighed, again.

_He'll be home sometime this evening_.

Home. Her choice of words stuck in him like a sliver. A dull, niggling ache that laid in wait, almost dormant; until it was touched. Then it burned like hell. Home. This was their home. Not Casey's.

Their cat curled around his ankles, letting out a plaintive mewl for attention. Donatello bent to scratch her behind the ear, his eyes searching her sweet face.

"I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

_2012 fanfiction isn't something I've delved into too deeply, but I'm really excited to keep working on this one. Aging the characters up a little has made me way more comfortable with them. But anyway. I wanted to work on something that felt real. That hit home. That touched on sore spots like self-doubt, jealousy and sadness. That explored what it would take to make April and Don's relationship work, for real. Really looking forward to exploring all of that more. Thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

Donatello sighed. One of his clients had exceeded their bandwidth and crashed their website. Again. They were a little nonprofit that insisted on having more images on their site than their bandwidth could support; their site crashed at the end of every month, and he was already providing them with more service than he was charging them for. The turtle knew they couldn't afford any more than what they were already paying, so he let it slide. Years of loving her in silence had left him with a soft spot for anyone trying for things that were just beyond their reach.

As he bumped up their disk space the door rattled down the hall. "Hey babe," Donatello called.

"Aw, Donnie," a familiar voice boomed. "I knew you must've missed me."

The door slammed and turtle felt his entire body stiffen in his chair. Casey Jones. Casey Jones was in his apartment. How was Casey Jones in their apartment? Donatello's brow furrowed. He must have met April in her classroom and picked up her keys. Or her office. Or maybe they had even met somewhere for lunch. A twinge of jealousy tweaked at Donatello's insides. While he was stuck in their apartment, Casey Jones had just walked right back into her life.

"Oh," the turtle cleared his throat awkwardly. "Hey Casey."

"That's right, dude. Casey Jones is in the house."

Donatello rolled his eyes. It had been less than a minute and he was already laying it on thick. A few wide strides was all it took to put Casey Jones and Donatello face to face. The turtle tried not to swallow too loudly when he saw him.

The sturdy, wiry boy they had known in their youth was gone; though he still held his long black hair back with that same faded black bandana. Casey was wearing his uniform: hoodie, sneakers, and jeans that were undoubtedly too tight. Wide shoulders strained under a sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up. Defined veins ran down his arms, emphasizing just how toned he must be under his hoodie. Every year, at every underground Christmas party, Donatello's eyes had been on his brothers and April, not Casey. Casey Jones had grown up, and he hadn't even noticed.

"Ya like my new choppers?" Casey Jones asked with a wide, toothy grin. "Got 'em while I was still on my Dad's insurance."

"Cool." Donatello said, his face entirely flat. "Couch's this way."

The turtle offered no compliments on his houseguest's new teeth, or agonizingly ordinary appearance. He only led the way down the hall, mentally griping to himself. The apartment wasn't even all that big, but the hall felt miles long, and only became longer with each nagging thought. _He's actually kind of good looking, you know..._Donatello frowned as he realized why Raphael always pouted when he came home for Christmas.

When they reached the living room Casey dumped his dufflebag at the foot of the couch, then gingerly leaned his bundle of hockey stick bags against the wall. Donatello involuntarily wrinkled his nose. The duffle smelled like beer and unwashed socks. As Casey plopped down on the couch and began to unlace his sneakers, Donatello opened a window. He would rather be seen than have to smell his houseguest's feet. Nosey neighbors be damned.

"Who's this?" Casey asked, almost sweetly. His knees popped as he leaned forward to pet the cat at his ankles.

"That's Kahn," Donatello muttered as he fussed with the curtains.

"Pft. You nerds would name your cat after a Star Wars character," Casey was scratching her hard behind the ears. The cat let out a long contented purr.

The turtle's eyes narrowed. "It's Star _Trek," _he began, ready to roll out his prepackaged explanation of how Star Trek's examination of the human condition and metaphorical plotlines emphasizing issues of racism, sexism and globalization through compelling narratives made it vastly superior to George Lucas' one trick pony, but Casey cut him off.

"Yeah, whatever man," he mumbled dismissively.

Kahn only continued to purr. The turtle's brow ridge furrowed. _Traitor_. He thought. Her back arched under the stranger's touch. As she pressed herself against Casey's leg, her entire body undulating like a wave.

"You, uh, have any pets back in…" Donatello's pathetic attempt at small talk put itself out immediately, like a fire with too little kindling.

"Michigan," Casey said, listlessly, as he leaned back against the couch cushions. "And no. No pets. Too busy playing hockey. The whole thing sucks, man. We just cracked the Division One top five." He sighed. "We were just getting good."

The turtle frowned. He almost felt sorry for Casey. But it was Casey's own fault, really. He was the one who had let his grades slip. He was the one who had lost his scholarship. And his place on the hockey team, evidently. Still, a small ember of empathy burned somewhere in Donatello. April would know what to say. To console him. April cared. She had tended to Casey for years with the patience of a midnight gardener. Donatello had resented Casey for that, until he realized she had tended to him, too. She had pruned back the gnarled growth of his self-doubt so they could shine light on each other's strengths. Kind, patient April. She had helped them both grow.

_What would April say?_

"Well, uh," Donatello glanced over his shoulder. "Feel free to make yourself at home."

The turtle scuttled back to his office to await April's return. Having her home would make it less awkward. He hoped. Hours stretched on like eons, but a knock at the door came eventually came. Donatello didn't bother to ask her how she got into the building without her keys; he just gave her a kiss. Once a kunoichi, always a kunoichi.

April discarded her bags, and her books, and immediately began to ask Casey all the questions Donatello had neglected to. How are yous and how was your flight and tell me all about its were strung together with kind smiles and warm laughter. She had already ordered them a pizza. Pizza was usually reserved for evenings spent in the lair with his brothers, but April seemed happy to make the exception for their houseguest. April was happy. Donatello tried to convince himself that that should be all that mattered.

The three of them sat around the kitchen table, eating pizza and exchanging stories about lives that had become so ordinary it was almost absurd. Whenever Raphael's name was mentioned Casey's mouth was always conveniently stuffed with pizza. Donatello asked what Casey's plans were; April shot him a needling glare, but Casey didn't seem to notice. The turtle excused himself early.

By the time April came to bed, Donatello's tablet was aggressively issuing low battery warnings. She closed the door softly behind her, peering over her shoulder at him. If she wanted to know why he was still up, she did not ask. She only stooped over her dresser, rifling through the drawers until she produced a mismatched pair of pajamas.

"Really, April?" Don raised a brow ridge. "Pajamas?"

April never wore pajamas.

She pulled the top over her head before shrugging noncommittally. This was her way of acknowledging things were different with him here - without actually acknowledging anything was different with him here. Donatello frowned. He didn't want things to be different; they were fine the way they were. They had a routine. They had their quirks. She knew his schedule like clockwork. He could predict her behavior on any given day of the week. Mondays and Wednesdays were rarely good, but that was only because she had office hours. Having Casey as their houseguest added too many new variables. It necessitated her wearing pajamas. And he did not like it.

April swung her legs over the bed and settled in next to Donatello with a book. It was one of her favorites; he could tell by the number of creases on the spine. _The Music of Life: Biology Beyond Genes_ by Dennis Noble (an oldie but a goodie). It was lyrical. Thoughtful. A welcome change from the dry research paper findings sections she was usually immersed in. "Just some light reading before bed?" Donatello half-teased.

"I do love a good bedtime story," she murmured, not taking her eyes of the page.

Donatello laughed. She would refer to a tome on the nature of life itself as a bedtime story. "You're know that, right?"

"Takes one to know one." She gave him that cocky kunoichi smile.

That look. That damn look. Pajamas or not, that look lit a fire in him. He shifted his weight, leaning in to kiss her neck.

"_Donatello_," April hissed, playfully swatting him away. "He'll _hear _us."

"So?" The turtle shot her a petulant grin.

"It's so nice to see that Casey Jones still brings out the petty asshole in you." She shook her head, but she still smiled. "Nice to know some things never change. Real comforting."

He leaned in close. "I'll make it worth your while."

She let Donatello kiss her then, long and deep. Any hesitance that had been there before melted away as her body succumbed to his touch. His hands slid up under her top, and her book hit the floor with a thud. It fell away; forgotten.

When she fell asleep she wasn't wearing anything at all. Her long red hair, oddly crimped from being up in a bun all day, fell across her pillow, exposing her freckled shoulders. His eyes trailed down her curves and edges; the long, soft line of her spine. He could have spent all night tracing the faint lines of her shoulderblades, counting the freckles that dotted her shoulders and chest like stardust. But the digital clock on her nightstand was screaming the hour in the dark. The lime green reminder that he too should be be asleep was too loud to ignore.

Carefully, quietly, he peeled away the sheets. She stirred, slightly, and he stopped. After years of abductions, and midnight attacks, and kunoichi training, April slept lightly. But at least she could still sleep through the night.

Sex normally put Donatello right to rush of oxytocin and ebb of cortisol was just the right chemical cocktail to subdue the fervor of his thoughts and let him drift to sleep. But if sex wasn't going to do it, milk just might.

He didn't like milk. It was too thick. Too bland. But sometimes it helped him sleep. Warm milk was even more repulsive than cold milk, but it contained tryptophan. Sweet, sweet tryptophan. If he couldn't force his stress hormone levels to abate, the next best thing was to pump himself up with sleep-inducing melatonin. Donatello rubbed his eyes. He should have just said yes when April asked if she could pick him up some prescription sleep aids.

The turtle groped under the bed until he felt something fuzzy. Huge and purple, the bathrobe had been a gift from Michelangelo several Christmases ago. He didn't know what his brothers assumed his life above ground was like, but more often than not, it did not require a bathrobe. He wouldn't have even bothered with it if it wasn't for their houseguest. Donatello did not wear clothes. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. He found them awkward and cumbersome. He was convinced they emphasized his otherness more than they concealed it. But somehow, the notion of walking around his apartment in the middle of the night in front of Casey made him feel naked. So he put on the bathrobe.

Donatello padded across the apartment, mindful not to disturb their guest. Or tread on their cat. But the kitchen light was already on. And Casey Jones was at the kitchen table, consuming their last box of goldfish by the fistful.

"'Sup."

"I don't sleep well," Donatello replied absentmindedly.

Another mouthful of goldfish crunched beneath Casey's new pearly teeth. "Bummer."

The turtle continued to drag his feet across the kitchen. It seemed their guest was taking his invitation to make himself at home literally. Donatello tried not to begrudge him for it. Yet, some deep-seated part of him hoped Casey could smell her on him. If all of the stories he had regaled them all with holiday after holiday were true, Casey had to know the smell. That sweet, sticky, indelicate smell. Maybe that would shut him up. As he swung open a cupboard, her words echoed in his ears. _So nice to see that Casey Jones still brings out the petty asshole in you_. Donatello frowned.

Casey stopped chewing. "Is Red ok?" His eyes drifted from the box of crackers to his host. "You know - is she happy?"

By Darwin's Beard, Donatello resented that nickname. When they were young it was almost charming. Even sweet in its simplicity. But now she was months away from becoming April O'Neil, Ph.D. Doctor O'Neil. And Casey was still calling her something that reduced her to her appearance.

Too exhausted to feign politeness any longer, the turtle rolled his eyes. "Of course she's happy. She'll be defending her thesis soon. Once that's over, there will be a hundred big firms fighting tooth and claw to offer her a contract. Kirby is back on his meds." His brow ridge furrowed as he rifled through the cabinet for an adequately sized mug. "Why wouldn't she be happy?"

Casey shrugged. "Something just seems off 's all."

Donatello had never been known for his patience. "I can _literally_ count the number of times you've seen April in the past five years on my fingers." The turtle wrenched the fridge door opened and yanked the milk out. "That hardly makes you an expert on her emotional state."

The microwave whirred to life, and Donatello slouched before it in his bathrobe. As the mug of milk made rotation after rotation, his lips pressed together. _There's no need to be an asshole, Donatello_. He reminded himself. _You've got her. And he has nothing_. The microwave dinged, and he exhaled a sigh of relief.

"Mmm, nope," Casey said resolutely, jarring Donatello from his reverie of a good night's sleep. "You've only got six fingers, and I've seen her seven times in the last five years."

The turtle blinked.

"Yeah, it's been seven times, for sure." He shoveled another handful of goldfish into his mouth.

How could that be? They only saw Casey at Christmas. Five years. Five Christmases. Five times. But it hadn't been five times. It had been seven.

If they had seen each other, April had never told him. But April told him everything. Donatello drew the mug of warm milk to his chest. And then a sound so small it was barely a word at all fell from his lips. "Oh."

The turtle wandered back to their room. He did not say goodnight. He did not say anything at all. The sound of Casey Jones chewing followed him down the hall, making Donatello's heart pick up speed. A gradual acceleration around the bend of sanity, spinning off into paranoia. The wheels in his head turned rapidly. His heart raced faster. _Don't dwell, Donatello_. He stifled a sigh. _Nothing good ever comes from dwelling. _

He closed the door as softly as he could, but she still stirred in bed. He held his breath, waiting to see if she would wake. His fingers clutched the mug just a little tighter. But she only turned over, taking the sheets with her. Donatello slumped in relief against the door.

Shrugging off his bathrobe, he slipped back into bed. The glow of New York City's eternal unnatural light seeped through the window, illuminating her freckled shoulders. Casey's nickname for her crawled up in the back of his mind. Red. Donatello turned onto his back. His shell sank into the mattress as he stared off into the muted darkness. Donatello closed his eyes, but Casey's words and all their implications were still there. Five years. Seven times.

By the time he remembered the mug of milk on the nightstand it had long gone cold.

**A/N:** _My husband asked me if Donatello and Casey were April's little teen boy baby bonsai trees that she was shaping into good men - I said yes and regret nothing. April's far from perfect, but I think Donatello and Casey still put her up on a pedestal to a certain degree, and that was definitely percolating in the back of my mind as I wrote this chapter. I hope you're enjoying Donatello's spiral into the abyss of paranoia with me. Thanks for reading!_


	3. Chapter 3

Five Years. Seven times. Those four innocuous words and all they implied had bored into Donatello. Left him hollow.

April had seen Casey seven times in five years, and she hadn't told him. The first five were easily explained, but the latter two - they were what was slowly devouring him late at night while she slept beside him. Five years, seven times was eating away at him, early in the morning over coffee, when she kissed him with morning breath.

It wasn't anything Casey had said out of spite. It had been an off-handed remark made in between mouthfuls of crackers. Hardly a vindictive act; unless Jones had known that was their last box of gold fish. Perhaps Donatello was underestimating him. Jones had proven himself surprisingly intuitive in the past. He had always seemed to know when April was her most vulnerable. The turtle rubbed his tired eyes. Weeks of over overthinking every word, every glance, every single interaction had worn away at him like waves over broken glass, leaving him dull.

He had not asked her. With midterms swiftly approaching, April was spending more time at the university and less time at home. With extended office hours and increasing deadlines, her eyes were almost as bleary as his were. No matter how late he went to sleep, if he got any sleep at all, Donatello was always awake before she left. But coffee shared in silence quickly became Donatello alone at the kitchen table. Casey had long since stopped waking up when she yanked the door closed behind her in hasty daily departure.

One early morning, dark and quiet before the sun came up over the city skyline, he almost asked. The words were on his lips. _When did you see him_? She was sitting across the table, with her fingers curled around her coffee cup. _Why didn't you tell me? _As she looked down at the rising steam, he noticed that her typically meticulous cateye was slightly askew. _Why did I have to hear it from him. _Maybe if she wasn't still wearing yesterday's sweater he could have brought himself to say it aloud.

After that morning, days had slurred into weeks. Casey seldom left the apartment, and Donatello rarely left his office. The whir of the servers that lined his office walls became stifling. Hours passed slowly when he was lonely, but not alone. Donatello left the door slightly ajar so Kahn could come to visit if she was so inclined, but she rarely did. Casey's undivided attention was too enticing.

When he felt himself tensing, Donatello brought up his chat history. April seldom chatted him when she was busy, so it was easy enough to bring up the records from that day; their exchange was quick to populate his screen. The day he had agreed to let Casey back into their lives unfolded before his eyes. Yes, he had agreed to let Casey sleep on their couch, but he had not agreed to sharing every meal, or slinking to the bathroom in the late morning in an effort not to disturb their guest while he still slept on the couch. But still, there was some small comfort in April's words. Casey was only supposed to be there for "a few weeks".

The "few weeks" mark arrived one evening when they were in the bathroom together. Donatello stared blankly at his ashen reflection in the mirror before groping to open the cabinet. April's bathrobe slipped from her shoulders and he hardly even noticed. He found his toothbrush as she stepped into the shower. He did not look at her, or the soft line of her spine, or the shape of her legs. All he could think of was finding the right words to say.

"I think we should make Casey a set of keys."

Donatello nearly choked on his toothbrush. "Why?" he gurgled through a mouthful of spit and toothpaste. "It's not like he ever leaves," he spat.

He saw her shrug through the shower curtain. "Maybe he would if he had keys."

"He doesn't need keys, April. Why would he need keys? You said he would be leaving in a few weeks" Donatello sputtered. "It's been three weeks. Three. Weeks."

"Don," April leaned out of the shower, her wet hair clinging to her face and freckled shoulders. "He'll hear you."

"Should I have asked you to be more specific?" Donatello went on, slamming the cabinet door shut. "I mean, a few is kind of vague. Does it mean two? Or three? Or more? I mean, once you get to four or five weeks, that's a month, right? Pretty sure that qualifies as a month."

The shower stopped.

"If you wanted Casey to move in with us you should have just said so!" Donatello snapped. His brow furrowed, then softened with sadness. April stood before him, hurriedly wrapped up in a slumping towel. His eyes met hers, and those blue eyes softened his hardened heart. "Maybe if he actually got a job we could afford a place in Meatpacking District," he said, dejected.

April just stood there, wet and wide eyed. Donatello closed the door behind him before she could speak. The turtle was in his sweats and out on the fire escape before she could put on her bathrobe.

Somewhere between the twelfth and the tenth floor he managed to send a text message to Michelangelo. _Can I stop by? _By the eighth floor, he had received his brother's reply. _bro you know you don't have to ask._ Michelangelo the relentless ray of sunshine. Somehow he always knew just what to say.

The exhilarating wind of the city top-side was sucked away as Donatello plummeted down a manhole. He took the long way home, dragging his feet, rubbing his eyes as they adjusted to the familiar darkness of the sewer. The smells and sounds of below crept up around him, wrapping him in an indelicate embrace. Perhaps he belonged here, below. Maybe he had been a fool all along to think that he and April could work. That they could have a life top-side. That they could be happy.

Donatello peeled off his sweats, struggling to pull them over the widest parts of his feet and his hands. His face scrunched in disgust. He might stand upright like a human, and think like a human, and act like a human, but he would never be human. Just as he thought he might let his sweats fall to the ground, he balled them up, shoving them under his arm. He would need them if he wanted to go back home. The turtle let out a dismal sigh. _Home_. He stood before the entrance to the lair, staring in silence. He knew the entry code. He could have just walked right in. But it had been so long.

"Dude." When Michelangelo peeked around the door, he had a smile on his face. "You don't need an invitation, you know."

Donatello forced a shaky smile. "Right."

Before he could say anything else, Michelangelo had swept him up in a warm embrace. "Come on in! Dad's already asleep, but Raph would love to see you."

Donatello patted his brother on the shell, glad that in the moment Michelangelo could not see his face. He had forgotten they weren't calling Splinter _Sensei_ anymore. It was just Dad now. As his brother ushered him inside, Donatello's eyes scanned the lair. What had once been familiar was now utterly foreign. But at least Michelangelo seemed happy to see him.

There was an eery silence to the lair, an unnatural stillness that settled over Donatello, making his skin crawl. Time felt slower down here in the quiet dark. He couldn't quite place it. Perhaps it was Leonardo's absence. Or their father's ailing health. Whatever it was, it hung over the lair like a heavy pall. Though it seemed to do little to dampen Michelangelo's spirits. The youngest turtle led the way with determined strides, guiding Donatello through the lair as if he had never been there before.

He had thought that coming home would have been comforting. Instead, it only made him feel more hollow. Home was where April was. Not this quiet, lonely place below the ground.

Leonardo was gone now. Raphael remained behind, never far from their father's side, though it was Michelangelo that tended to Splinter. And made sure Raphael didn't do anything stupid. If anyone had told Donatello ten years ago that Michelangelo was going to grow up to be the most mature of them all, he probably would have had an aneurysm. At least Michelangelo seemed happy. But then again, he always did.

The apartment Donatello shared with April was only a few miles away, but they had an entire world between them. Suddenly he felt painfully far away from everything that mattered. April. His brothers. His father. He had been in his head for so long, when he finally opened his eyes, everything had changed. Michelangelo stopped before Raphael's door and Donatello tried to do the same without tripping over his own feet.

"I would knock first," Michelangelo cautioned. "He just, uh, took up knife throwing. He's getting pretty good, but you know sharp objects and Raphael. Things happen." The youngest turtle smiled, utterly unfazed. "I'll let you know if Dad wakes up."

Donatello took a step back, then rapped his knuckles on the door. When he received no reply, he entered slowly, making no sudden movements. The older Raphael became, the more on edge he seemed. Scaling back on patrols had not helped matters any. Though Splinter had expressly forbidden it, Donatello knew Raphael still went on solo runs. His brother still occasionally texted asking about hacking the police com channel, and Donatello usually obliged. Raphael was not well suited to being kept below ground like an animal in captivity. He needed the night air just as much as he needed the crunch of scum under his heel. If he was forced to remain down below, he would just waste away. Donatello frowned. He was hardly faring any better living top-side.

The turtle's eyes drifted to a small weapon embedded in the doorframe. He plucked the narrow diamond shaped blade from the wall by its long thin handle. As he turned it over in his hand, his brother called out to him.

"Cool, kunai huh?" Raphael smirked. "Leo sent a set back from Japan."

"Interesting," Donatello remarked. "Michelangelo said you had taken up throwing knives."

"Well it's not so much as knife as it is - "

"A trowel," Donatello finished for him.

"Or a crowbar," Raphael shrugged. "I asked Leo to bring back another set when he comes home. I want some of those saw-tooth ones next."

Donatello's finger traced the edge of the blade. "When will Leo be home?"

"He said they'd be back for Christmas," Raphael flopped into an old, worn armchair. "But you know how it is. It all depends on whether or not Karai can get a hook up from one of her old Foot Clan contacts. Private jet is a helluva lot quicker than taking a boat…" Raphael paused and cocked a brow ridge. "But something tells me you didn't come back to chat about Leonardo and all the goodies he's been sending home."

Donatello settled into the lumpy couch that used to be in the den. _What am I supposed to say? The thing I gave up everything for is falling apart? _He took a deep breath. _That I left you all to be with her and now I don't know what to do? _The turtle's face crumpled into a frown. "We got in a fight."

"...and? Come on, Don. Spit it out."

Donatello hung his head. "And I flipped out and left."

"Oh Donnie. You're singing my song," Raphael grinned. The turtle in red lept out of his armchair with zeal and began to rummage around in the bar that lined the back wall. Before Donatello could blink, there was a glass of whiskey in his hand.

Donatello's brow furrowed. "I thought you only drank on Christmas."

"Correction." Raphael held up a single finger. "I only drink when he's in town."

"...you know he's back, right? For good?"

"Unfortunately." Raphael's lips were drawn in a taut line. "Is that why you fought?"

Donatello looked up at Raphael with sad bleary eyes. He knew how awful he must look. He had seen himself in the mirror, before he stormed out. He had seen his weary eyes, and the dark bags that had settled in under them. He knew how his shoulders sagged; his shitty posture, worn like a uniform of misery. He stunk of self-pity and paranoia, and he knew it. He knew.

But he had tried. Hadn't he? Sometimes, he could catch her smiling, and he thought he could forget what Casey had said. He thought that maybe, just maybe he could bury that misery and keep living. But every time he thought he could crawl out from under it, those four words resurfaced. _Five years. Seven times._

"Casey's an asshole, Don." Raphael took a drink. He leaned back in his old armchair and smirked. ""Ave I ever told you 'bout the time he brought that blonde girl home and fucked her while I hid in that damn coat closet?"

"Yes, Raphael." Donatello sighed. "But it's been about six months, so I guess we're due for a retelling."

"Oh, don't be like that Donnie." A wry grin spread across Raphael's face. "It's a good story."

"If you say so…" The turtle in purple tilted his glass, and watched as the oversized icecube glided through the fierce amber whiskey. The smell alone made his nostrils burn.

"So I'm at the apartment, waiting for him to come home from class, like every other day. I can hear him, comin' down the hall when he texts me. _Get your ass in the closet_. I thought it was just some new kinky shit. That he wanted to spice things up a little," Raphael shrugged nonchalantly. "So I get in the closet. And he walks in, and he's got this girl on his arm. Real pretty. Tall, with long blonde hair. I'm watchin' him, through a crack in the door…" His eyes got lost in his whiskey, for a moment. The icecube cracked, loudly, and Raphael blinked. Suddenly he was back in the lair with his brother.

"Anyway," he sniffed. "He wiggles out of those damn tight pants and bends her over our couch, and her skirt rides over her ass. He pulls her panties to the side, and that's it. He's fucking her. Her pussy's so wet he just slides right in." Raphael looked over his glass and straight into Donatello's eyes. "If you're wondering why he walks with that swagger he does, it's 'cause he's got a huge cock. For real, bro - giant. Long and thick."  
>"Nope. Was not wondering that," Donatello's cheeks flushed a bright pink. "Was not wondering that at all."<p>

"Yeah, well, it's true," Raph continued. "Anyway. he's fucking her. He's fucking her like a jackhammer. And she's moaning, and grabbin' the couch so hard her knuckles are turnin' white. And I'm watchin'. I'm watching my boyfriend fuck some babe he's never even mentioned." He took a short, curt swig. Raphael's face fell, then. Donatello frowned, his brow creasing in concern. Yes, he had heard this story before. Countless times. But never in such detail. His brother continued.

"He fucks her, and she's screamin', and I'm just sittin' there in that damn closet, shoved in between all the heavy winter coats and shit, watchin' 'em," Raphael's head lolled back over the back of his chair. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before he spoke again. "God it was hot."

"Raph," Donatello began, groping for the right thing to say. "I never knew."

"Never knew what? That I _liked_ it when he fucked her? That I liked watching?" He chuckled bitterly. "We've spent our whole lives watching, Donnie. Hoping for just a _little_ taste of what they've got. And maybe we get it. Our taste. But then it's gone. Just gone." Raphael knocked back the rest of his whiskey. "So you hold onto her, Don. Don't let go."

Donatello's eyes met Raphael's. His brother's fierce green eyes cut right through him, dark and bruised as storm clouds on the horizon. His brother had always had a storm lurking just below the surface. There was thunder in his words; lightning in his fists. Donatello had felt the brunt of both crashing down on him countless times growing up together, but he knew Raphael was right. April was worth holding on to. Donatello cast his gaze to the ground again.

"You want another?"

The turtle in purple shook his head somberly. He had hardly drank any of his, and the icecube had melted, watered everything down. The smell still seared his nostrils. If he had any nose hair, it might have burned it all out by now.

"See the problem wasn't that he fucked her," Raphael explained, leaning over the bar. "It was that he wanted to fuck her, and didn't tell me." The whiskey filled the glass right up. "And of course he went and fucked her anyway, because that's the kind of asshole Casey Jones is." He sniffed, and wiped his nose with the back of his free hand. "Couldn't trust 'im, after that."

Something sunk in the pit of Donatello's stomach, and his grip on the glass of whiskey tightened.

"Listen, Don," Raphael said, in that tone only he could muster; the tone that was gentle and gruff, all at the same time. His words came slow, but clear. After four fingers of whiskey that was a feat in itself. "April loves you. Would she put up with all this shit if she didn't?" He gestured to the room around him. The lair. Them. "April's smart, Don. Smarter than you. She knows an asshole when she sees one."

Raphael cast a pointed look at his brother. "So don't be an asshole."

A sad, faint smile spread across Donatello's face. "I hate it when you're right," he shook his head, but he still smiled.

"I have my moments," Raphael shrugged, and the whiskey sloshed against the rim of his glass. "But what do I know about love? I'm still alone."

"Aw come on bro," came a small voice from the door. Michelangelo, the relentless ray of sunshine. "You're not alone, Raph. You've got us!"

"Yeah, yeah," Raphael grumbled, feebly swatting at Michelangelo as his brother draped himself over him in a hug.

Michelangelo smiled at Donatello. "I don't think Dad is up for a visit today, Donnie," he explained apologetically. "But if you wanna hang out I could order a pizza?"

Donatello only shook his head, explaining that he needed to go home. His brothers required no further explanation. They knew just as well as he did; home was where April was. Maybe if he left now he could make it home before she went to sleep. They walked him out. They embraced him. They told him not to be a stranger. As he tugged his sweatpants up his leg, Donatello tried to smile.

Donatello crawled through the window to find their apartment dark and deserted. None of the lights were on, save for the muted flickering clock on the microwave at the end of the hall. He moved through the apartment slowly, peering into the living room, which was empty save for Casey's duffle bag. The door to their room was open. Their bed was empty. There was no note. No text message. No e-mail. No nothing.

'"I guess that's what I deserve," Donatello said to no one.

Even Kahn was gone.

The turtle sat as his desk, awash in the pale glow of his monitors. Minutes dragged on with agonizing slowness. An hour passed, but it felt like three. The only thing that seemed to change was the arrangement of the pixels on the microwave clock. He picked up his phone, but when he called her it went straight to voicemail.

"_Hi! You've reached April. I can't come to the phone right now -"_

Donatello hung up. The turtle sat in the dark, mulling over what Raphael had said. _Don't be an asshole. _He sighed. Too late for that. He replayed the rest of their conversation over and over again. He could learn from his brother's mistakes. He knew he could. _Couldn't trust 'im after that_, Raphael's words, gruff and sad, hung heavy in Donatello's thoughts. The turtle cradled his head in his hands. Would his brother have said that if he knew? If he had told him that April lied? Donatello shook his head. No. He didn't know. Maybe it wasn't a lie. Maybe it was just an omission.

It could have unintentional. A slip up. Or it could be something worse. But she hadn't told him. Could he trust her? Donatello leaned back in his chair, the sinking feeling in his gut turning into nausea. His stomach lurched, and his mouth became dry. He could feel it creeping up in the back of his throat; the bile, the doubt, the self-loathing. He should have asked her that morning when her eyeliner was uneven. When they were tired and alone, in the quiet of the morning. But he didn't. Maybe that was because it was easier not knowing.

He called again.

"_Hi! You've reached April -"_

He cut the recording of her voice off, again, tossing his cell aside. It landed somewhere he could not see with a dull _thunk_. The turtle blinked, and his tired eyes were suddenly wide open in the dark. He could check her GPS coordinates. It wouldn't be all that difficult. She knew...she knew he could. They had discussed it, but strictly as an emergency fail-safe. It was only to be used in instances of prolonged disappearances. Interdimensional alien abductions. That sort of thing.

Donatello's fingers twitched over his mouse.

He could do it. It would be so easy. He only wanted to know where she was, after all. To know that she was safe. If there was one thing Donatello could not stand, it was not knowing. He was tired of the doubt. He was tired of asking the same questions over and over again with no answer. He was tired; just tired. The turtle bit his lip. A new window opened on the screen before him, and his reflection glared back at him from the blank, black expanse. Deep bags sat under a furrowed brow. A thin veneer of sweat glistened over his sallow skin. It was a wonder Raphael hadn't given him any shit for looking like, well, shit.

He groped for his phone and called again.

"_Hi!" _The recording of her voice chimed sweetly - so sweetly he could see her smiling that smile that made him go weak at the knees. Donatello frowned and ended the call with a tap of his thumb.

A text cursor blinked back at him in the dark open window, waiting. It would be so easy to ping her cell. All it took was the right signal. If that failed, there were always satellites. He would only need three ranges to pin her location. Only three. He could do it in a heartbeat. In the blink of an eye.

And a heartbeat was all it took.

**A/N:** _Eep! I hope you guys like this chapter. Donatello's spiral into paranoia and self-loathing is kind of hard to swallow if you're a Donnie fan, but I wanted this to feel real - to get ugly. Jealousy is a normal emotion that everyone feels, but if you let it consume you, it will crush you and everything around you. Donnie's going through it right now, but hopefully April and his brothers can help him see the error of his ways in the coming chapters (there will be at least two more). Thanks for reading :)_


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